Guerrilla Aging: My One Night Stand With A Personal Trainer

Malia Lindquist, author of Rocky Mountain Miamian, is a blogger, recovering attorney and mom to two semi-adult daughters. A committed dabbler and traveler, she mostly splits her time between Boulder, Colorado and Miami, Florida, which perfectly reflects the split in her personality. She can be reached atLindquistLaw@gmail.com.

*****

Talk about traumatic. I just had what is basically my first one night stand, and I am scarred for life.

I met my husband when I was 18 and had never been the type to stray during our 20 years together. Turns out he was, which was no surprise to anyone but me. Hovering around the grief when I discovered the truth, however, was curiosity about one night stands.

Almost everyone I know has had a least one. One night stands had never been my thing, but I figured there must be something to recommend them considering their popularity. When I divorced I was determined to experiment.

My first attempt was a bust. I met what I intended to be my first anonymous liaison on a flight to San Francisco. However, my intended became a boyfriend I had to ditch when he started making plans for us to live together. In retrospect, I wonder if he was lesbian.

Though I have no judgment about one night stands (unless one of the parties is married to a charming and, admittedly, often sarcastic woman with 2 small girls,) I quickly decided I don’t have the stomach or aptitude for it.

The one thing I thought I did have an aptitude for was staying in shape. Over the years I exercised consistently and was game for all of the crazy fitness trends. Heck, I even wore thong leotards with shiny pink spandex tights that were in style around 1990 (or was that just Miami?) Anyway, the point is, exercise was one of my few core competencies and the only thing I have ever done with any consistency or discipline.

In a weak moment, I said yes to one of the friendlier and more persistent trainers, Alberto. I warned him, “I am absolutely, definitely, no way, no how, ever going to pay for personal training.” I didn’t want to lead him on and hated for him to waste his time. He promised that free means free, no pressure, no guilt.

To be sure I made my point, I suggested he think of our session as a one night stand. There would be no relationship and no exchange of money for services. Alberto agreed. No strings attached. No way, no how. He wasn’t even thinking about it.

My free session started with Alberto using plastic pliers to grab fat on my arms, hips and stomach. He explained this was so he could determine my body mass index and fat to muscle ratio. After weighing me, Alberto busily made several calculations. The process seemed impressively scientific.

Alberto explained the four categories of fitness. I was certain I’d be in the top super-fit level for my age. Surely Alberto would then see why he and I had no future.

Finally, the verdict was in.

What? I was not the middle-aged physical fitness maven I imagined myself to be. In fact, I was at the bottom, unhealthy, not fit, repulsive.

Alberto circled around, observing and taking notes, as he had me do a few squats and planks. “Yep, just as I thought,” he said. “You have weak glutes.” I was confused. “Glutes? Do you mean there’s something wrong with my ass?” Then I experienced a momentary glimmer of appreciation for the Brazilian Butt Lift I so unkindly mocked in my last blog post.

Alberto also used words like deficient, unstable, off balance, asymmetric, interior, anterior and various other legit sounding anatomy terms. While I didn’t understand the specifics, the gist of it was this: that I work out on my own daily actually made me less fit than if I sat on the couch eating Doritos all day.

The gist of it was I needed Alberto. For ever and ever, starting immediately.

There was no arguing with science. I was not meant to experience the pleasure or depravity of a one night stand.

Fortunately for me, Alberto was running a special personal training package for just $279.99, good for one day only. Such a deal.

Darn, my wallet was at home and I had to hustle off to a meeting. “No problem,” Alberto assured me. You can pay later. Just give me a call.

“Yes, definitely,” I told him. “I will call later. I promise.”

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If you would like to add your voice to the Guerrilla Aging community, send your thoughts/blog post to lifeintheboomerlane@gmail.com.

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